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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803322">Roma is Amor spelled backwards</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis'>aryastark_valarmorghulis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Italian Remus Lupin, Italy, Literature, M/M, Meet-Cute, Mental Health Issues, Museums, Non-Explicit Sex, POV Remus Lupin, Professor Remus Lupin, Roma | Rome, Social Anxiety, Strangers to Lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:40:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,757</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803322</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When a handsome Englishman steals Remus’ table at his favourite restaurant, the last thing he expects is for him to brighten up his lonely, monotonous existence.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sirius Black/Remus Lupin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>314</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Roma is Amor spelled backwards</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A big thank you to my amazing Beta <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentthunder/pseuds/maraudorable">maraudorable</a> for the help and the precious advice.<br/>Edit: now with a wonderful <a href="https://starstruck4moony.tumblr.com/post/635146777465602048/happy-birthday-arya">cover</a>, thanks to the lovely  <a href="https://starstruck4moony.tumblr.com">Starstruck4Moony</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The walk from the middle school Remo works at to the trattoria <em> Le Terme </em>takes roughly eight minutes – a pleasant stroll that borders on the baths of Diocletian, but the scenic route is not the reason he grabs lunch at <em> Le Terme </em>every Tuesday. This little restaurant he discovered by chance at the beginning of the school year is tucked away in a concealed alley, a tiny place, nondescript enough so that tourists pass by without a glance, retro without being stylishly vintage: chequered tablecloths fraying at the edges, mismatched old-fashioned glasses, the menu of the day scribbled in white chalk on a blackboard. </p>
<p>There are always a few patrons at the hour Remo comes in, 1.40 p.m., but it’s mostly old retired people quarrelling light-heartedly, playing cards and arguing about politics, so they pay him no mind.</p>
<p>Remo can sit at his little corner table and open a book or one of his students’ tests while waiting for his carbonara with a glass of fresh water, without anyone looking at him or bothering him. Sometimes Lidia, the owner – a kind old lady who seems determined to feed him a lot because he apparently is “secco”, <em> skinny </em> – offers him coffee on the house and jokes about the fact that he seems too sweet to deal with kids nowadays. That’s the only conversation Remo has to partake in and he does it easily – always less taxing than sitting in the teachers’ lounge and listening to the usual chatter about the problematic students, the broken copy machines, the spotty WiFi, and then of course the husbands, the wives, the children, the cars, the holidays, the ageing parents. Remo suspects his co-workers think him odd and reserved at best and snobbish and sad at worst, but he doesn’t resent them: he <em>is </em>odd and reserved, after all, and sometimes sad, too; he prefers to eat by himself with a book and his own thoughts for company before going back to the last two hours of afternoon classes.</p>
<p>So every Tuesday, since the beginning of the school year, he goes to <em> Le Terme</em>, eats Livia’s excellent carbonara and drinks water and takes his coffee – black, no sugar – before walking back to school, the short walk always relaxing since he can admire the baths of Diocletian on his right, half in ruins and yet still preserving that melancholic allure of long-gone grandeur, with their lush gardens and looming archways.</p>
<p>Most Romans pass through without sparing it a glance – used to the city’s countless ruins and historical buildings since childhood and indifferent by now – but not Remo; he’s not Roman, after all, and even if he has lived here for more than a decade, he still worships the beauty of the city that adopted him.</p>
<p>Sometimes, though, he feels like one of the ancient Romans who dutifully made sacrifices and left offerings on carved marble altars: like he’s venerating an unconcerned entity, a big city where he is just the umpteenth provincial swallowed by the anonymous blurb of people that crowd the streets, the subway, the tourist attractions, the bars and the grocery stores. Another faceless, small-town thirty-something with an average job, a barely average paycheck and a monotonous life.</p>
<p>Not that Remo’s existence doesn’t revolve around routine: he wakes up at the same hour, eats the same plain yoghurt, drinks his coffee, walks to work and teaches the same English verbs and prepositions and vocabulary, grabs lunch every Tuesday in the same trattoria and goes home to grade papers, plan his lessons and eat his vegetables. On Sundays, he goes out: he takes the promenade from the Vittoriale towards the Colosseum, losing himself in the Imperial Forum, by now familiar and yet always stunning, and lingering there until twilight, when the columns of the Trajan’s Forum and the Saturn’s temple pediment blush orange and pink under the last sun rays.</p>
<p>He’s fully aware of his own glaring predictability because, more often than not, when he arrives at <em>Le Terme</em>, Livia has his carbonara almost ready, and sometimes there’s already a side dish of zucchini salad or bruschetta bread with tomatoes waiting for him at his table – it is <em>his </em>table by now – on the house, so all he has to do is sit and read in peace.</p>
<p>At first, he got a tiny bit upset, feeling uncomfortably seen in all his highly practised routine, in his silly idiosyncrasies that anchor his unsure feet in stable ground. But then, he learned to appreciate those kind gestures – he might be exposed but he is also taken care of with kindness, greeted with enthusiasm and treated with familiarity, like he’s almost home. Some days this is the only thing that grounds him, even if for a fleeting moment – this, and his students’ smiles.</p>
<p>Other days, he exists on autopilot, his smile strained and tense, his shoulders hunched with an invisible fatigue, his only respite his weekly appointments with his therapist and his Sunday walks through the ruins, as if he hopes that the city who welcomed millions of people for centuries would suddenly call him home and settle his panic.</p>
<p>Not even Livia’s excellent cooking can ease Remo’s melancholic bouts, not even Rome, who seems to smile at him with her warm weather, beautiful and remote and chaotic and noisy, but she never calls him home. Remo pictures all the people who lived there – not the ones his students learn about at school but the obscure, the forgotten who walked the same time-worn sampietrini he’s walking now – and feels a strange kind of kinship with them. He will soon be forgotten and fall into obscurity, and he isn’t alone, nor will he be: others will join him, after, and it’s enough to temporarily ease his loneliness, his yearning for an unknown belonging.</p>
<p>Until one Tuesday, at <em> Le Terme</em>, he meets the Englishman.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>March descends upon Rome with light drizzles and lively winds crawling under Remo's jumpers, not too strong but invigorating enough to extend his Sunday walks: from the Forum to the piazza della Rotonda and the Pantheon, where the obelisk casts its oblong shadow over tourists and Romans alike, from the Tiber waterfront, smelly and crowded with joggers, couples holding hands and street painters selling Roman landscapes for a few euros, to the Castel Sant’Angelo, its marble angels guarding the mausoleum of a pagan emperor.</p>
<p>March always brings extra work, too, with a lot of class councils, parent-teacher conferences and extra hours spent helping struggling students – and that’s why, on a fine Tuesday, the sunny sky finally forcing him to drop his overcoat, Remo is a bit grumpy at the idea of going back to work not only for his afternoon classes, but also for another meeting. He will have to stay up late <em>again </em>tonight if he wants to grade all the tests he administered today, he thinks, just as he waves distractedly at Livia and – <em> oh</em>. His table’s already taken.</p>
<p>Remo blinks stupidly and for a few seconds he stands there, trying to get his brain to remember that it’s only a table, he should just grab another and stop being silly, but his body is slow to process this information. Lidia places a big, steaming plate of carbonara on the table at his left, shooting him an apologetic smile, and only then Remo sits down. It’s only a stupid table, it’s alright. He fishes out one of the tests from his bag and starts to eat, fork in one hand and papers in the other.</p>
<p>“Mi dispiace.” <em> I’m sorry</em>, says a low, heavily accented voice at his right. “Le ho per caso rubato il suo, um, il posto?” <em> Did I just steal your usual place? </em></p>
<p>Remo stops mid-chew to look at the man sitting at his usual table and flushes with embarrassment, not only because the man clearly caught him gaping like a fish, but also because he is unfairly gorgeous. The kind of sharp features that belong in art exhibitions and that make him suddenly self-conscious of the grey dusting his temples, of the lines etched at the corners of his eyes, of the outdated jumper he’s wearing.</p>
<p>“Ah, no, non fa niente”, he replies. <em> Oh, no, it’s nothing. </em></p>
<p>The stranger unsubtly cranes his neck to look at the papers Remo laid on the tablecloth. “Oh, are you an English teacher? Great, I don’t have to embarrass myself with my Italian, then,” he jokes.</p>
<p>Remo smiles faintly – he’s not used to this kind of interaction outside his usual narrow circle of acquaintances. He averts his eyes and his palms begin to sweat: gorgeous Englishmen suddenly addressing him put his body on alert in a way that talking to colleagues, kids, parents, neighbours he shares the elevator with doesn’t. “Your Italian seemed fine,” he mutters politely.</p>
<p>The man just grins and a sudden twinge plucks at Remo's heart, an unknown longing for something yet undetermined. “Well, some days it seems more challenging than Latin and Greek put together.” The man chuckles, showing Remo the cover of the book lying on his table – a copy of the Aeneid. </p>
<p>Remo's heart thumps –  he spent six months studying that poem, and he itches to know if the Englishman is a fellow Classics lover, not to mention the aesthetic delight of chatting with such a handsome man –  but he can’t bring himself to reply. </p>
<p>The words fizzle out in his throat, the dying embers of his ability to hold a conversation with a stranger – and it’s frustrating, his hopelessness to come out of his shell and just strike up a conversation with someone, the uneasy shiver that comes from a meaningless swerve in his routine, like a simple change of a sitting table. He just offers a strained smile and goes back to his pasta and his test, contemplates for a moment to ask Livia for a glass of wine before flat out scolding himself for being an idiot. He must go back to work and besides, he must keep his head as clear as possible when his mood rests on such shaky foundations. </p>
<p>Well, at least he has a new conversation topic for his therapist’s appointment tomorrow –  the stranger who stole his table and got him all twisted up with a couple of words –  but it isn’t exactly the most cheerful thought. It was only a polite stranger, after all: in his therapist words’, he shouldn’t give others the power of crushing his spirits. But still, he can’t help but think that, were he more easygoing and less of a lone wolf –  less Remo –  he wouldn’t be so bloody <em>lonely </em>all the time.</p>
<p>After an evening shower, he looks in the foggy bathroom mirror, and his blurry face seems like a more accurate picture of himself than if he had wiped the mirror clean: a half-living creature, struggling to break free from the thick mist of his own deceptions. It’s not that he gets tongue-tied because he doesn’t know what to say – he could’ve easily quoted some of his favourite verses, or said he prefers the first part, the odyssean half. Most of the time he <em>knows </em>what to say, but he just can’t bring himself to speak – he thinks of Sappho, ironically<em>: it is no longer possible for me to speak, but it is as if my tongue is broken. </em></p>
<p>He huffs, towels himself dry, grabs a copy of Catullus from his library and goes to bed, reading about broken hearts and kisses and dirty jokes and friendly witticisms and feeling as if the words of a man who lived more than two thousand years ago speak more truthfully to his heart than his own brief, failed relationships or estranged friendships.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The Englishman is at <em> Le Terme </em>again next week.</p>
<p>“Non le ho rubato il posto, stavolta.” <em> I didn’t steal your place this time, </em> he tells Remo in a deep, amused voice, his R’s and T’s harshly spelled. The Aeneid is placed again at his table, closed, next to Sappho; he’s a student, maybe, even if he looks at least twenty-five.</p>
<p>Remo nods and averts his eyes, suddenly tongue-tied. While he tucks into his carbonara, thankfully at his table this time, he notices the Englishman from the corner of his eye stealing glances at him – probably only looking for someone to exchange a few words in English with, or maybe he’s just one of those overly-friendly people, but heaven knows how disastrously bad Remo is at being friendly. </p>
<p>He is curious about people, though – including handsome Englishmen – but he gets uncomfortable whenever they are right in front of him: an unfortunate conundrum.  </p>
<p> He tossed his Catullus in his bag last week, in jest, to read in the waiting room of his therapist’s office, and he still has it, buried under textbooks – he could fish it out, exchange a few comments about Catullus’ adaptation of Sappho and wait for the Englishman to comment their similar reading choices. But he keeps his gaze stubbornly lowered and doesn’t acknowledge him when he leaves.</p>
<p>The next Tuesday, the man is there again. He has his own Catullus this time, damn him, and also a dazzling smile. “Bella giornata, vero?” he says. <em> Nice day, isn’t it? </em></p>
<p>It should be easy to answer him, but it isn’t. Being comfortable around new people always feels like climbing a mountain he can’t conquer, no matter how much he tries; he learned to endure it, live with it, try his best so it doesn’t cripple his life too much. He remembers one of Marcus Aurelius’ meditations and how true it rings: <em> Today I escaped anxiety. Or no, I discarded it, because it was within me, in my own perceptions </em> <b> <em> – </em> </b> <em> not outside. </em> </p>
<p>The week after that, Remo finds him seated at the same place yet again – this time they exchange an amused smile when they both place ancient Greek books on their tables: the Odyssey for the Englishman and Euripides’ <em>Bacchae </em>for Remo. </p>
<p>But as soon as he senses the Englishman angling his lovely face towards him, Remo feigns a deep concentration in order to avoid talking – it is easier for his anxiety, avoiding talking to strangers, like dodging a bullet. But it’s also lonelier. </p>
<p>He can’t handle a conversation today, and he doesn’t want the man to know that he noticed his curious looks but failed to say anything. He can unfortunately feel his inquisitive gaze – he can feel it in the clumsiness of his own fingers when he grabs his too-hot cup of coffee and in the heat spreading on his cheeks like the spring that by now shines upon Rome.</p>
<p>Another man, braver or maybe just less socially inept than him, would offer to share a table when, on another sunny Tuesday, two tables at <em>Le Terme </em>are occupied by four businessmen in suits, and the Englishman is relegated to eat at the bar, his long limbs uncomfortably arranged on the narrow barstool, broad shoulders hunched. From Remo's table, his profile looks painfully attractive, long black hair framing a sharp jaw, straight nose, eyes as sparkly as the first stars twinkling in the evening sky.</p>
<p>Remo can fool the world into thinking he’s this stoic, detached, uninterested man, but he has the decency of not fooling himself: he has been looking, and every stolen glance is a pang of loneliness, nagging him to escape this cage he built by himself, to reach out, to look in the eye instead of sideways.</p>
<p>“Giornata piena,” he says to Livia when he goes to pay the bill. <em> Busy day. </em></p>
<p>Livia chatters happily about business always picking up during spring and summer, and Remo can just sense the Englishman turning his head towards them. He registers his heartbeat picking up in his throat only after he looks up, meeting the stranger’s curious gaze.</p>
<p>“Have a nice day.” He marvels at hearing his own voice, raspy after four hours of lessons, and his mild, conversational tone. There, it wasn’t so hard, after all –  maybe next time he can even utter more than four words.</p>
<p>“Cheers, a martedì prossimo.” <em> Till next Tuesday</em>.</p>
<p>Remo is already halfway through the door, glad the Englishman can’t see the small smile tugging at his lips.</p>
<p>His week goes about as usual: a restless ennui starts to settle in the next day, plants its roots in the deepest recesses of his mind and grows into an anxious disquiet by Saturday. His Sunday walk seems to lighten his mood – he visits one of his favourite art galleries in Palazzo Barberini, standing quietly in the middle of the wide corridor, unmindful of tourists and guests, admiring his favourite painting, the one that usually quenches his neglected thirst for beauty.</p>
<p>But today there’s a dissonant note, the dramatic chiaroscuro of Guercino is unsettling instead of soothing: <em> Et in Arcadia Ego</em>, I too was in Arcadia, is carved on the pedestal where a skull is placed, and two young shepherds are staring. A warning to the youths, of course, but also to Remo, the observer: <em> memento mori</em>, remember you must die, and even in the most perfect idyll, in the most sheltered world, the shadow of death looms over. Life is, after all, short, and one should seize happiness while it’s possible.</p>
<p>Remo strolls across Piazza Barberini, after, the dwindling sunlight beaming like gold in the jet of water spilling from the top of the Triton Fountain. Kids and families eating their first gelato of the season, tourists snapping selfies and street vendors selling centurion helmets and Colosseum miniatures. The well-known pinprick of loneliness stings him when he catches an old couple leaning on each other and two young girls holding hands. </p>
<p>Remo figured out his bisexuality when he still was in high school. He had a couple of relationships and a handful of hook-ups during his university days, but true romance always seems to happen to others and not to him, so vibrant in the books he eagerly devours, and yet so elusive in real life. Most days he lies to himself and tries to believe he’s comfortable in his solitude – but sometimes the veil of deception falls, and his shoulders sag under the weight of his empty apartment, his estranged friends now far and happily married or partnered, his co-workers’ pitying gazes and his parents’ constant worry. With most of his teenage and adult friendships, he spent his time waiting for the people close to him to leave out of disinterest or boredom once they had him figured out, convinced that it was only a matter of time – so convinced, in fact, that sometimes he was the one leaving, hurting himself before others could.  </p>
<p>Of course, the Englishman has nothing to do with his brooding – he’s merely a handsome man Remo’s exchanged a couple of mundane sentences with, nothing more than a meaningless extra in the narration of Remo’s life. His attraction is only an understandable reaction to beauty, a harmless crush from afar, annoying because it reminds him of his inability to enjoy life fully, always a spectator and never an actor.</p>
<p>The reason he stops by a stall selling old used books and purchases a yellowed, frail copy of Sappho is merely academic interest, and if it ends up in his work bag that evening, well, it’s haphazardness at best.</p>
<p>* </p>
<p>Next Tuesday, Remo walks into <em>Le Terme </em>with the book tucked under his arm because he’s not sure he could gather up the courage to fish it out of the bag after seeing the Englishman’s knife-sharp, vaguely ironic smile – but today he pays Remo little mind, too busy chatting with Livia at the bar, slowly repeating words in Roman dialect, strange and foreign in his British lilt. <em> Puzzone</em>, Remo hears, stinker. <em> Tutte fregnacce</em>, all bullshit. </p>
<p>He hides his smile behind the book as if Sappho can answer the sudden agitation in his chest, like cogs left dusty and unused for too long suddenly put into gear – and the first solution that springs into his mind to get rid of this ridiculous crush is to go buy a bottle of wine after work and get drunk.</p>
<p>“Ah, I love Quasimodo’s translations – so elegant, so smooth.”</p>
<p>Remo almost drops his glass of water when he sees the Englishman standing across from him, long hair tied up at the nape of his neck, a smile dancing on his lips, and while Remo's heart begins to thump rather embarrassingly, he puts down the book calmly and smiles back. He finds out it’s not a chore, after all.</p>
<p>“I thought you were teaching English, though,” the man says, with a smirk and a slight quirk of his eyebrow, like he’s seeing straight through Remo's pathetic attempt at – what? He doesn’t even know.</p>
<p>“Oh, er, yes, I am, but I love the Classics, too,” Remo replies. There’s more to it than simply loving the Classics since he actually studied Ancient Literature for two years before switching to English, but he’s not going to explain his questionable career decisions to a stranger.</p>
<p>“Me too – well, I’d better, since I’m getting my PhD in Classic Literature.” The man shrugs, a hint of self-consciousness in his friendly, easygoing behaviour.</p>
<p>“What is it about?” Remo asks. They’re interrupted by Livia with Remo's pasta and, after a brief nod from both, she also places Sirius’ prosciutto sandwich at his table.</p>
<p>“My research is about Homer’s influences in Petronius Satyricon and how the latter is, in fact, a parodic retelling of the Odyssey.”</p>
<p>A doctorate student in Classics from Britain who can speak Italian and translate Latin and Greek: impressive. He must be a few years younger than Remo, but not much, maybe four or five – his skin is smooth and unlined, his hair as black as liquid ink.</p>
<p>“Oh, I'd really like to read your thesis! I love Satyricon.” </p>
<p>Remo surprises himself saying it, and he means it, even if he feels his cheeks flushing a little at his sudden forwardness.</p>
<p>The Englishman chuckles. “I bet you do,” he says, the barest undertone of flirtatiousness in his pointed look and sly smile making Remo's skin prickle with an unscratched itch. “I’m Sirius, by the way.”</p>
<p>They shake hands over the table. Sirius’ palm is warm and his shake firm. </p>
<p>“Remo.”</p>
<p>“A Greek name and a Roman one – it suits us,” Sirius muses, and then he grabs the book lying face-down on the table. “Let’s see. Ah, this is so good – it blends different fragments together, you know? Scuote l'anima mia Eros, come vento sul monte che irrompe entro le querce; e scioglie le membra e le agita, dolce amara indomabile belva. Ma a me non ape, non miele; e soffro e desidero.”</p>
<p>
  <em> As a wind in the mountains assaults an oak, love shook my breast. Again love, the limb-loosener, rattles me, bittersweet, irresistible, a crawling beast. Neither honey nor bee for me. I desire and I crave. </em>
</p>
<p>Couldn’t Remo have picked a less embarrassing poem to read?</p>
<p>“Sorry I butchered it with my terrible accent – your English is so flawless I could have mistaken you for a Brit if I didn’t hear you talking to Livia.”</p>
<p>Some kind of dizzy embarrassment floods Remo at the thought of Sirius eavesdropping his conversations with Livia. “I lived in Edinburgh for a year, when I went on Erasmus,” he explains.</p>
<p>“Edinburgh! That’s my university, too! Go figure, we could’ve met in Scotland.”</p>
<p>Not likely, since Remo spent almost all the time furiously studying in the library, but he just smiles – it’s spontaneous, to smile at Sirius. It seems surprisingly easy for Remo to relax a bit, even if Sirius’ blinding handsomeness could make anyone nervous, even if Remo's stiffness in front of strangers is as hard to melt as a block of ice. They both finish their food in silence for a couple of minutes.</p>
<p>“So, Remo. What do you usually do when you’re not reading ancient poetry or grading essays?” Sirius asks.</p>
<p>Remo swallows. Well, there it is – the moment when the conversation veers towards more personal topics and he’s forced to deal with the fact that he has little to no life to speak about. The little bubble of comfort pops, and bits of deep inadequacy rain over him. He checks his phone and says, all in one breath: “I take walks, go to the movies – damn, I’m going to be late for work, I should hurry...” He shoots Sirius an apologetic smile and goes to Livia to pay and tells her that no, he won’t take his coffee today, because he’s running late for school – a lie, of course. It’s not late at all: he’s just exceeded his daily quota of interacting with new people without looking like a charity case, and as soon as he’s outside the door, he inhales deeply, as if he just challenged himself and he’s not sure how bad he did.</p>
<p>“Remo?” He hears Sirius calling him, and he turns on the footpath, almost colliding with him. “You forgot your book.”</p>
<p>“Oh, grazie!” Remo replies, <em> thank you</em>. When he grabs the book, their fingers brush, and he can’t remember how long it has been since he touched someone outside of accidental bumps on public transport. His neck is hot under the collar of his shirt. “Till next Tuesday, I guess.”</p>
<p>Sirius just gives him a damn perfect smirk. “Sì, a martedì! Ciao.” <em>Of course, till Tuesday, bye. </em></p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Remo knows he’s being irrational and ridiculous, a thirty-one-year-old man feeling like a schoolboy with a crush, but he can’t stop thinking about his conversation with Sirius. He ruminates on it as soon as he finishes his afternoon classes, in the aisles of the grocery store, distractedly stocking up on pasta and tomato puree and mozzarella, his mind busy replaying their interactions on repeat.</p>
<p>It rushes back to him at random moments during the week: between classes, under the shower, brushing his teeth, in line at the ATM – until Saturday afternoon, fed up, he stops by the tobacco shop despite having quit years ago, and as soon as he’s home, he lights up a cigarette by the stove and chain-smokes on his balcony. He cooks dinner, but his thoughts are still lingering on <em> Le Terme </em>so much that the boiled fennels are overdone, the vinegar peppers are too salty, and the moka pot splutters angrily on the stove before he remembers to turn the gas off.</p>
<p>He smokes some more, the night gently falling on Rome, cloaking domes and palaces, buildings and skyscrapers, tympanums and churches in the same twinkling, mysterious light. He can see the red lanterns of the Chinese restaurant at the corner of the street and the still open flower stall on the opposite side, and he hears the faint thump of music from the main street, littered with bars and pubs. It’s a warm night, tables will be placed outside and people will be spilling out on the streets, ready to enjoy the Roman nightlife.</p>
<p>The cup of coffee in his hand and the cigarette in another remind him of past nights, in another, smaller flat near San Lorenzo, where, as a student, he used to smoke his jitters out before going out with his university mates – it has never come easy to him, tackling crowds, speaking up in big groups, joining a conversation with friends of friends he barely knew. But he pushed himself and tried: most times it was just bearable. Others, it could be pleasant and fun and Remo would feel reassured in himself, in his ability to function like an ordinary human being. But some nights, a glass wall would fall between him and the rest of the world and he would just stand like an alien, numb, unable to reach out, alone in his head even when surrounded by people.</p>
<p>Then he switched from Classics to English, went to Edinburgh, and when he came back, all his university mates had graduated and moved out, and he just stopped trying. Now he works and survives, but there’s more to life than just surviving – he talked about it last week with his therapist who suggested he should branch out more, go out, and she’s right, of course she is. Remo is only thirty-one, he can’t go on like his life is already over, pretending he’s content with the little he’s settled for. If a casual touch by a stranger can ignite this kind of powerful yearning, Remo clearly can’t lie to himself – he isn’t satisfied, he isn’t content, his life is not at all fulfilling when a man he’s barely talked to can put all the weight of years and years of loneliness on his shoulders and force him to <em>feel </em>all he’s denied himself. He is pining, mooning over a man he barely knows but who reminds him of all his shortcomings.</p>
<p>Life is there, ready for the taking, unfolding clearly like the placid Tiber slithering through the city, and the only obstacle between Remo and living is himself, and he is tired – a deep in-his-bones exhaustion that makes him feel ancient – and suddenly the pretty night lights are like sirens, luring him outside, calling him, reminding him he isn’t ancient and nobody is going to save his sorry arse but himself.</p>
<p>Remo grabs his wallet, jacket and keys and goes outside, almost jogging because he’s too afraid to lose his nerve, following a strange impulse, the fresh night breeze almost exhilarating on his face. Unlike Odysseus, he doesn’t have beeswax to plug his ears with, but he will make do, he reckons, so he crosses the street and falls in line with the crowd.</p>
<p>He fools himself into believing that his feet lead him to Via dei Serpenti towards the Colosseum only because he wants to admire the ruins at night and take a couple of pictures, but in his heart he knows that he’s truly heading for the side street on the east side of the Colosseum, Via di San Giovanni in Laterano. The ruins of Ludus Magnus, the gladiatorial school, are on the left, and on the right side, the Gay Street: bars and pubs and ice-cream parlours, LGBTQ-themed souvenir shops, sex shops, even a gay-friendly luxury hotel. But best of all, as far as he remembers, those 300 metres are always brimming with people – so crowded that even someone as plain as Remo can hope to get picked up. Maybe he’ll look for some vaguely sad older man, he decides – he always found them strangely reassuring, ironic ghosts of Christmas future.</p>
<p>Remo can’t, in fact, concentrate on the Colosseum standing proud in all its eternal solemnity, beckoning people from all over the world for centuries, and even though his phone is fairly new, he seems unable to snap a decent picture, so he just gives up, goes around it and turns left. The Gay Street is indeed packed, and before throwing himself into it, Remo squares his shoulders and lights up a cigarette, glancing nervously at the less crowded side of the street, the one overlooking the ruins of the gladiatorial school – he chuckles, because he indeed seems to be bracing himself for a fight, just like gladiators did centuries ago, except the fight is against himself.</p>
<p>He settles for smoking his cigarette, leaning with his back against the iron railing that separates the street from the archaeological area, watching the loud crowd. </p>
<p>A group of young men are drinking all around a three-wheeled Ape van painted with the rainbow flag colours, but people are mostly sitting on the pavement and around the tables outside, or just idly walking between the white umbrellas in front of the bars. A girl in cornrows comes near Remo, tugging her redhead girlfriend, and they start kissing, arms around each other, blissfully oblivious to the rest of the world – they don’t seem younger than Remo, but he feels old. There’s a special kind of despair in going out by himself and smoking, painfully alone, in a street full of people. He watches a couple of guys calling out to a friend and stopping for a chat, a handsome man wearing a Trans Rights pin on his shirt coming from the same street Remo had, checking his phone and then spotting his friends, who call him loudly, and a gorgeous drag queen in a sequin dress stepping outside for a smoke.</p>
<p>That is what he’s been missing out on, a world of friendship and shared weed and inside jokes and one-night stands and — probably — love, too. He coughs because he’s not used to smoking anymore, but still lights up another cigarette, inhales, blows out a puff of smoke from his nose and decides he’s going to venture inside a bar, order a beer and take his chances. </p>
<p>“Remo?”</p>
<p>Remo stops breathing mid-inhale, coughs and almost drops his cigarette.</p>
<p>“Ciao! It is you, then! I wasn’t sure at first.” Sirius suddenly turns up next to him. From the depths of his embarrassment, Remo can’t help but notice how good he looks wearing jeans and a leather jacket with a Bi Pride patch on the lapel, long hair loose and messy around his lovely face.</p>
<p>“Oh, um, ciao, buonasera.” <em> Hi</em>, <em> good evening. </em></p>
<p>They lock eyes and Sirius smiles his usual blinding smile. “Well, isn’t it <em>good </em>to see you <em>here, </em>” he says, but then he chuckles airily and shifts his grey eyes to the ruins behind them, something akin to hesitance arising in his finely chiselled features, a faint trace of pink creeping up his cheeks, lips curved in a wistful smile. The fact that Sirius is very clearly flirting and not being subtle about it is inebriating and alarming at the same time, but at least the hint of a crack in Sirius’ confident attitude helps Remo to answer.</p>
<p>“Yes, you too – having fun?”</p>
<p>Sirius looks back at him and nods with another dazzling grin – Remo must’ve said something right, for once, to elicit such a smile.</p>
<p>“Aren’t you going to offer me a cigarette?” he asks.</p>
<p>Remo fishes out the packet from his back pocket and hands it to Sirius. “Take them all, I don’t smoke anyway.”</p>
<p>“You don’t?” Sirius raises an eyebrow, gaze sliding to the half-smoked cigarette still pinched between Remo's fingers. He stubs it out on the railing.  </p>
<p>“No, I, well, I officially quit years ago,” he explains. “I, er, was just feeling a bit nervous today, but it’s better if you take them, really.”</p>
<p>“Grazie. I know what you mean –” Sirius says, placing a cigarette between his lips, but then his phone starts buzzing. “Sorry, one moment.” He checks his phone and listens to a voice message. “You wouldn’t be interested in joining me and my friends in a house slash techno dance club in Ostiense, would you?”</p>
<p>Remo's grimace must have expressed his answer, because Sirius laughs. “Yes, I know, a wise choice, it’s pretty terrible and overpriced. But I can’t just bail on them.”</p>
<p>Undoubtedly someone as charming and extroverted as Sirius has plenty of friends and an active social life, and he doesn’t deserve to waste a Saturday night talking to him; he surely has men and women throwing themselves at him, so why would he insist on a socially awkward mess like Remo?</p>
<p>“Of course, you should go have fun – I mustn’t keep you.”</p>
<p>But Sirius lights up his cigarette and takes a long drag. “The thing is,” he says, fixing Remo with a <em> look. </em> “I’d rather stay here, have a pint and chat with you. I won’t insist further, but if you come, maybe we could leave early…?”</p>
<p><em> Oh. </em>Remo wonders how liberating it must be, to be so bold and brazen, to be able to express himself so freely and openly. His palms are clammy and he feels more flattered than probably ever in his whole life. Out of the corner of his vision, he can see Sirius’ friends – a group of four, two girls and two boys – discreetly looking at them, and he hates that he knows his limits so well: he’s aware he can’t take an overcrowded club full of people bumping into him, bad music blasted at full volume, and he surely can’t take Sirius’ friends, as nice as they probably are.</p>
<p>A chat with Sirius, as thrilling as it is, probably used up all his social energy for the night, and the last thing he wants is ruining Sirius’ plans, so he shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t, I – I have to wake up early tomorrow because I was planning to visit the Vatican Museum, and there’s usually a big queue because they close at 1 p.m. –”</p>
<p>“Hey, it’s okay, I get it, no problem.” Sirius interrupts him and smiles reassuringly. He shrugs. “I love the Vatican Museum, even if I haven’t been in a long time...” He trails off, and Remo might be socially awkward, but he isn’t stupid. He understands the unspoken offer that Sirius just put on the table, and he appreciates that he is leaving it up to him to decide. He only has to bring himself to ask.</p>
<p>“Your friends are waiting for you,” he says instead, like the coward he is.</p>
<p>Only the look on Sirius’ face – a sinking realisation in his shifty gaze, and then an embarrassment that doesn’t suit him at all with a nervous neck scratch – manage to tear Remo away from the feeling that what he is doing is self-sabotage. He <em>likes </em> Sirius and he wants to go out with him. He only has to <em>tell </em>him.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I should be going. It was nice seeing you, Remo. Buonanot–”</p>
<p>Remo inhales a deep breath. “You could come with me?” he says, before he can overthink it. “Tomorrow, at the museum – I mean, if you want to, I’m sure you’ve been plenty of times...”</p>
<p>In the split second between his question and Sirius’ answering smile, Remo realises how standoffish he was before, because even knowing that Sirius was flirting and must somehow like him, that pause fell between them like a drop of ice, frozen and sharp and unforgiving. But the clouded look on Sirius’ face turns quickly into something sweet – he could have thought it tender, if he knew Sirius better.</p>
<p>“Yes, of course, I’ll come – it opens at nine, right?”</p>
<p>Remo nods. “Yes, but we can go later if you don’t want to wake up too early?” he offers.</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s alright. Let’s meet at eight-thirty there, first who arrives gets in line? Should we exchange numbers?”</p>
<p>“Sure, yes.” Remo takes out his phone and hands it to Sirius so he can punch his number in.</p>
<p>“Done, I’ll text you so you can save my contact, too.”</p>
<p>Their fingers brush again when Sirius hands him back the phone, and this time they’re both aware it’s not an accidental touch but a wanted one.</p>
<p>“See you tomorrow, then. Have fun,” Remo says.</p>
<p>“A domattina, e buonanotte.” <em> Till tomorrow, and goodnight</em>.</p>
<p>Remo walks home after, his mind a giddy, light-headed mess of contrasting feelings. For someone who usually sits and ponders his words and actions for as long as he can, evaluating consequences, advantages and disadvantages, tonight he made impulsive choices: going out, flirting back, inviting Sirius on a date. (Is it a date? He will not think about it now.)</p>
<p>Years and years of carefully weighted decisions led him there tonight, smoking alone in the Gay Street, words tumbling out of his mouth before he even had a chance of arranging them properly in his mind. Still reeling with the consequences of his own sudden impulsiveness, he feels connected to Rome buzzing around him, and for once Remo's heart is beating as the same rhythm, full of hope and fragrant with spring.</p>
<p>As soon as he’s home and unblocks his phone to set the alarm for tomorrow, he finds a message from an unknown number.</p>
<p>Buonanotte 🌛 A domattina! <em> Goodnight, I’ll see you tomorrow. </em></p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Remo has been waiting for half an hour by the entrance door – he was anxiously early – when he first catches sight of Sirius, exactly on time, waving at him across the street, and he is immediately relieved to notice he’s dressed rather casually: cuffed jeans, Converse and a grey t-shirt. Remo doesn’t feel too shabby in his denim jacket and khakis. </p>
<p>Sirius beams at him and offers him a paper bag. </p>
<p>“Buongiorno! Ho portato i cornetti.” <em> Good morning, I bought two cornetti for us. </em>Remo feels himself heat up despite the fresh morning air and the cloudy white sky. They eat their honey cornetti, still warm, getting in line as more people start to gather under the big gate surmounted with the Papal coat of arms.</p>
<p>“Oh, this is delicious, thank you,” says Remo, licking crumbs off his fingers. “So, how was the rest of your night?”</p>
<p>Sirius huffs and stuffs half a cornetto in his mouth. “Eh, just boring. Yours?”</p>
<p>“Well, I went home, made tea and read a book.” Remo shrugs. He understands Sirius might write him off as a bore, but he’s done pretending to be someone he is not just so that others like him better. The fake persona he sometimes created always shattered in front of his true self after a while, and he learned that wearing a mask and acting only leads to disappointment – and therefore, it’s better to disappoint right away, he decided.</p>
<p>But Sirius only smiles and bumps their shoulders with a startling familiarity. “Sappho again?” he teases him.</p>
<p>“No, Ovid, <em>Ars Amatoria</em>,” Remo lies, and he feels the tips of his ears burning – as if a book about seduction is any less embarrassing.</p>
<p>It is a strange comfort to stand side by side with Sirius, to link their arms together as they walk inside, bickering over who should pay for both tickets – they end up splitting because they keep arguing in front of the clerk and there are people in line shooting <em>looks </em>– and it is frustrating because Remo, so prone to belittling himself, is already fretting over how little he has to offer to someone as lively as Sirius. </p>
<p>It’s the kind of burden that burrows so deeply inside his mind that, no matter what his therapist or his rational brain say, he can’t uproot it.</p>
<p>Climbing the majestic spiral staircase that leads them to the Pio Clementino collection, Remo runs his hand over the black carved balustrade and takes in the hypnotic perfection of its concentric shapes while Sirius rests his palm on his back and chatters merrily about the museum. “This isn’t the real Bramante staircase, obviously; this is modern, built in the early twentieth century by Giuseppe Momo and inspired by the original Bramante staircase that is sadly off-limits to the public...”</p>
<p>Remo looks up at him when he hears him pause and finds Sirius frowning at him slightly, cheeks pink.</p>
<p>“But of course you already know all this, don’t you? <em>Professor </em>Remo,” Sirius says, a hint of sheepishness in the self-conscious chuckle he lets out. “I don’t want to bore you.”</p>
<p>Remo just shakes his head and smiles. He doesn’t say that Sirius’ excitement is not only adorable, but actually reassuring – he is used to feel like the odd nerd out, the one obsessed with reading all the guidebooks and listening to art podcasts and watching documentaries and hunting down obscure articles on the internet, but usually he has no one to share all these titbits with. At least today they can be nerds together.</p>
<p>All he says is: “Not at all, I mean, yes, I know about the staircase, but please, keep going, it’s cute – and I can’t wait to exploit all your PhD in Classical Studies knowledge when we get to the Roman statues and busts.”</p>
<p>Sirius grins and keeps chatting about the colourful mosaic at the centre of the floor as soon as they step into the Greek Cross Gallery. “… in Roman domus, of course, the presence of Medusa wasn’t purely an aesthetic choice –”</p>
<p>“Because they were very superstitious and believed her image could ward off evil and warn the guests,” Remo finishes. They look at each other and share a smile. “I know.”</p>
<p>Sirius links their arms together again as they start to wander, looking at the marble statues and sarcophagi and sharing odd curiosities and dirty anecdotes about the various emperors looking at them in their white marble perfection.</p>
<p>“Hey, come here a second,” Sirius says, holding out his hands and wiggling his fingers. Remo swallows the pang of panic that threatens to spill from his throat; he saw plenty of queer folks holding hands in the city, but Rome isn’t exactly London or New York, and they’re inside the Vatican on top of all. He still grabs Sirius’ hand and squeezes, breathes out his relief when no one seems to even glance at them and follows Sirius, who stops in front of a bust of the emperor Antoninus Pius.</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, one of the Five Good Emperors,” Remo starts, but Sirius presses his shoulder against him and turns his head to fix him with a sly look through his long, dark lashes.</p>
<p>“You look like him,” he says.</p>
<p>“I do <em> not </em>!” Remo splutters. He tries and fails miserably to seem at least a tiny bit indignant – Antoninus looks quite old, after all – but he cracks up and laughs.</p>
<p>“You totally do,” Sirius teases him. “Add a few years and a beard, and it’s you.”</p>
<p>Remo shakes his head in mock disapproval, but in truth, he can glimpse a likeness in the curls and the long, pointed nose.</p>
<p>“Too bad.” Sirius shrugs. He nudges Remo forwards and lowers his voice a bit. “I think he’s rather hot.”</p>
<p>Remo blushes obligingly. They’ve only been talking for half an hour and he is already furiously besotted, which never happened to him before: at this pace, he expects by mid-morning he will feel utterly infatuated and at lunchtime he will be half in love.</p>
<p>They let go of each other’s hand but still walk side by side, occasionally brushing fingers and forearms, and each time the odd tingle of excitement fires Remo up suddenly, as if he was surviving on low battery and now he’s been plugged in again.</p>
<p>He remembers the museum pretty well, but he can’t help but think that every frieze and figurine and vaulted ceiling are glowing because their beauty is shared between him and Sirius.</p>
<p>As they pass through the Sala Rotonda, its rounded dome mimicking the Pantheon, Remo points his finger at the colossal statue on display on their left, and they approach Antinous dressed up as Dionysus, leaves and ivy berries crowning his head and a thyrsus in his hand, marble face pensive and breathtaking in its classical perfection.</p>
<p>“He looks just like you,” Remo teases Sirius.</p>
<p>Sirius bursts out with laughter. “Are you kidding me? <em>Please</em>, I’m not nearly as much of a pretty boy.”</p>
<p>Remo just grins – it’s true that they don’t look alike at all: Sirius’ features are nothing like the soft roundness of the statue’s, his jaw is strong and angled and his cheekbones could cut glass. Remo merely picked the most beautiful artwork in the room and compared it to him.</p>
<p>They move on to Hera and Apollo and Heracles, until it’s suddenly 1 p.m. and museum employees start telling visitors they’re about to close. Sirius actually pouts – adorable, Remo thinks – and they linger until they’re literally shooed away, both reluctant to go. From Remo's side, it’s more than reluctance: he doesn’t want his time with Sirius to end, because he knows that as soon as this almost miraculously happy bubble of flirting and shared love for art bursts, his anxiety will return – he already feels it, lurking in a dark corner of his mind like an unwanted friend who always manages to come back.</p>
<p>As soon as they’re back outside, they stop for a moment, silence suddenly stretching between them, a stark contrast from the previous non-stop chattering. Remo shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, trying to gather the nerve to ask Sirius to lunch – it shouldn’t be so hard after last night and after all the flirting, but somehow, it is still hard. It must always be hard for him. </p>
<p>Lost in his own mind, he suddenly notices Sirius is looking at him with an almost shy smile, and time slows to a heartbeat because of their sudden closeness; Remo blinks at his stupidly perfect face, his pulse quickening, his hands craving to be held again, and tilts his head up – and then he looks away, face on fire, guilty for his overcaution and angry that even a place as beautiful as this one can make him feel unsafe.</p>
<p>“Lunch?” he blurts out instead. Well, at least he invited him after dodging a kiss.</p>
<p>Sirius enthusiastically agrees, and the brief almost-kiss they shared gets stored away along with countless almost moments in Remo's life: an almost gifted kid, an almost graduate in Classic Literature, an almost expatriate in Edinburgh, an almost English teacher, an almost functioning man with an almost empty life. But he mustn’t think of this now: these last two days have been an exception, a point zero, a proof that he can – in his therapist’s words – live a little and enjoy a bright day in his otherwise grey life.</p>
<p>Sirius, who must’ve remembered Remo telling him about his habit of walking through the city on Sundays, proposes a walk to the Ghetto, where, he promises, they will eat the best artichokes alla giudia. It’s a long walk, but luckily the sky is overcast and the light is grey and dull, and the views are stunning: they cross the beautiful bridge of Vittorio Emanuele II, and Sirius has to stop to snap a picture of Castel Sant'Angelo looming ahead. Remo looks at him admiring Rome in all her glory and thinks, <em>maybe I could do this</em>, but it’s probably only the high of the moment since he’s not usually this optimistic. But when Sirius asks him to take a picture and leans with his elbows on the bridge, sunglasses on and dark hair blowing in the gentle breeze, looking like a damn model, Remo can’t help the elation that fills his chest.</p>
<p>He feels good – not just good as in healthy or satisfied when his students get good grades or he watches a pretty rainbow from his balcony or samples a good wine – but a deeper well-being, the kind that nurtures the soul.</p>
<p>They keep going down Plebiscito street, where Remo tells Sirius that this used to be the road Popes travelled to move from the Vatican to their Lateran Palace – this, at least, Sirius didn’t know – and Sirius gestures at Doria Pamphilj Palace with its baroque back entrance, suggesting they should visit the gallery inside next time they go out together. He doesn’t even hide the hopefulness in his voice, and even though Remo has visited it many times already, he realises he doesn’t just want to see the excellent art collection, but he wants to see it with Sirius so they can share the experience. Beauty might not be a solitary enjoyment, after all.</p>
<p>When Plebiscito Street opens up in Piazza Venezia, Remo quickly explains that, while he does not care much for the pompous Vittoriano – although, Sirius argues, the concept of a modernised forum with a three-level agora surrounded by a high colonnade is quite an eye-catcher – the street they’re about to walk, that leads past the Roman Forum towards the Colosseum, might be his favourite promenade.</p>
<p>“I’m surprised you studied English and not something linked to the Classical Antiquities, really – you’re such an enthusiast,” Sirius muses.</p>
<p>Remo, who just finished retelling the old but always interesting and gruesome story of the Tarpeian Rock, sighs. It’s not his favourite subject, still a sore spot years after, still a reminder of a road not taken and all the possibilities that came with it. “Well, I did, for two years, but then I switched to English,” he explains. After a moment, he really surprises himself again, adding: “I wanted to get away from Rome and from Italy, so I thought my best chance was a degree in English… I went away for a year and then came back.” Remo tries not to sound too dejected, but he’s pretty sure Sirius caught the wistfulness implied in his words because he offers a small smile.</p>
<p>“Must be not easy, to leave Rome,” he replies in a neutral tone.</p>
<p>Remo hums and nods, grateful that Sirius doesn’t press further. The truth is, when he left for Edinburgh, he awfully overestimated his ability to cope with a different environment, with new people, with a total disruption of his daily routine. He ended up spending all his free time in the library with his nose buried in a book, picked up smoking, passed his exams with the bare minimum, and as soon as his return flight landed in Ciampino, he exhaled a relieved breath.</p>
<p>But of course, if Remo wishes to keep this day as light and pleasant as it is, he mustn’t talk – or think, though that might prove to be difficult – about his past and present failures, he must only focus on this so far delightful day. <em> Carpe diem</em>, someone wiser than him wrote more than two thousand years ago.</p>
<p>“But it’s a big city,” Sirius adds after a few seconds of silence. He snaps a picture of the Temple of Peace. “Easy to feel lonely in it.”</p>
<p>Remus nods, not trusting himself to speak, but he suspects Sirius is very, very observant. He lets out a relieved sigh when he hears him beginning to talk about Cicero, and they trade their favourite stories about the man – between his inflated ego, his bromance with Atticus and his deep hatred for, well, for a lot of people, they have plenty. Remo has always been self-conscious on dates – not sure if he laughed or smiled or replied appropriately – and it dawns on him that Sirius is very good at putting him at ease: the smiles and the casual (but not invasive) touches reassure Remo of his interest, and Sirius’ ability to fill out pauses chases away every awkward silence.  </p>
<p>It’s when they end up in Rione Monti, also known for being a hipster hotspot, that Sirius surprises Remo for real.</p>
<p>“Sometimes I play guitar in a little club over there, <em>L’Arlecchino</em>, do you know it?” He waves at a small, nondescript side alley. “A little venue, patrons are mostly expats and students, but just for fun, I mean, I’m not a musician.”</p>
<p>“Wow, that’s actually impressive… What kind of music? Do you sing as well?” Remo asks. Just when he thought he couldn't get more smitten in a single day…</p>
<p>“I sing, too, yes – well, I try,” he replies. “Ah, how can I explain it without seeming pretentious as fuck? Indie, minimalist but with an edge… You’re laughing already, aren’t you? You <em>are</em>! Well, I deserve it, after all.”</p>
<p>Remo is, in fact, sniggering after hearing “minimalist but with an edge”, but without malice: he has little idea of what it means except for the fact that it does sound pretentious as fuck. On the other hand, he’s full of amazement: Sirius is apparently a musician, and so confident that he’s not above self-mockery in front of a bloke he’s flirting with.</p>
<p>“Oh, laugh it up! I can assure you it’s even more pretentious than it seems – once I wrote a song entirely based on Callimachus’ verses. It’s so uncool it’s almost cool.”</p>
<p>Remo cracks up. “<em>You didn’t</em>! I need to hear it, like, yesterday.”</p>
<p>Sirius shoots him one of his razor-sharp smiles. “Well, it’s not like I’m on Spotify, so you should come to my next gig if you want to have a good laugh at my expense.”</p>
<p>Remo swallows. “Maybe, yes, why not.” It’s a vague answer and he knows Sirius understands at once something’s off, but he appreciates that he doesn’t insist like others did, in the past.</p>
<p>Sirius leads them along narrow alleys and small piazzas, bars and restaurants half-hidden inside wooden patios, and by the time they get seated at the tiny table outside the tavern Sirius recommended, it’s 2 p.m. and the restaurant is blissfully quiet and discreetly tucked away from the street by two tall flower amphoras. While they wait for their food – artichokes, cheese and pepper spaghetti with chicory, ricotta pastries – Sirius talks a bit about his PhD research. This is his last year, he explains, and by the next winter he should be ready to return to Edinburgh and discuss his thesis, even if the mere idea of <em>later </em>causes his head to ache. Remo tells him about his young students and his English lessons for beginners.</p>
<p>“I envy you a bit,” Sirius says, the corners of his lovely mouth curving into an indecipherable small smile. </p>
<p>Remo almost chokes on his wine.</p>
<p>“<em>Professor Remo</em>. I bet you’re too good to give your students a bad grade.”</p>
<p>“I am not!” Remo protests. “I am actually very strict!” He is hardly strict but he does give bad grades when it’s necessary, thank you, Sirius.</p>
<p>They both smile. Sirius must have been teasing him, of course – he can’t possibly be envious.</p>
<p>They argue again about the bill under the confused eyes of the waiter until they settle for splitting <em>again, </em> and as soon as they stand up, Remo thinks about some excuse to extend their time together, another walk, a coffee somewhere – <em> if </em> Sirius isn’t bored of him yet, which he doesn’t seem to be – but the loud rumble of the sky drowns out his thoughts.</p>
<p>What was only an overcast sky earlier is a blackish grey sweep swirling above them. Spring downpours are pretty common in Rome, and of course they must happen during the rare day Remo is actually having fun. </p>
<p>“It looks like it’s about to rain,” Sirius says, with a wrinkle of his aristocratic nose. “Do you live far?”</p>
<p>“Oh, not at all, I can catch the underground at Cavour and then it’s a five-minute ride and a five-minute walk. You?”</p>
<p>“Eh, I live in San Lorenzo,” Sirius replies. A student neighbourhood, near the university: makes sense, but it’s a bit far from here – a walk, a bus that seldom passes during non-working days and another walk.</p>
<p>A few stray raindrops begin to fall, a light drizzle peppering the rounded sampietrini with tiny dark dots. Remo looks at Sirius, a solitary raindrop rolling down Sirius’ cheek like a tear track, and he knows that the decision of ending or extending their time together is in his hands again, and while his hands are notoriously not good at holding good things, he tries. “Would you like to go to my flat for a coffee?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Sirius answers quickly. Another loud rumble, as if Rome is warning them to run.</p>
<p>“Better get a move on, then, before we get soaked,” Remo says, and he touches Sirius' elbow. “This way.”</p>
<p>They manage to catch the underground train before it starts to rain in earnest, and the coach is so stock-full of people that Remo is wholly justified for pressing close to Sirius and leaning in far more than it is really necessary to chat. Sirius’ long hair tickles Remo's cheek whenever the train bumps and it might be the most intimate he’s been with someone in at least six months. The handle of a folded stroller digs mercilessly into his hip and the air is smelly with sweat and spilt alcohol, but Sirius puts a hand on the small of his back, not pushing, not stroking, just resting there like the barest promise of more. This close, Remo can count his long, dark eyelashes, can almost <em>feel </em>the smoothness of his shaved face – and he wants to.  </p>
<p>Sex is not something that panics him – even if his libido has been quiet lately – but it’s usually the whole corollary that comes with it that exhausts him. Meeting someone, talking to them, flirting, going out, talking some more – is it really worth the effort, when the effort is so taxing? He tried Grindr, of course, but it only made him feel depressed and even more lonely, so he deleted it after a while. </p>
<p>But still, sex with a new person is always a two-faced Janus. On one side, he enjoys getting off once in a while – and he would certainly enjoy doing it with Sirius. On the other side, before and during sex his mind likes to remind him that his body is nothing special to look at, especially that ugly, twisted scar on his thigh, that maybe he’s not very good at fucking, and that he is definitely not good at talking or cuddling afterwards. That in the dark, face turned away, one body is like another – and at the end Remo just doesn’t matter, nor his partners: they’re just means to an end. Remo always wanted to tell one-night stands not to bother asking anything about him, always wanted to warn them there’s nothing deep underneath, only a body, a simple body with physical urges to satisfy.  </p>
<p>Today, though, there’s Sirius with him, not a faceless body, and Remo doesn’t want him to think there’s nothing beneath the surface – he himself isn’t just a body, today. Overconfidence is the furthest thing Remo can expect from himself, but he’s not oblivious either: he’s pretty sure Sirius wanted to kiss him outside the museum, and he caught him staring unabashedly more than once. The fact that they’re headed to Remo's flat doesn’t have to mean anything, of course, but somewhere deep in the pit of his belly, a dormant desire is stirring up again. It’s been so long since he let someone kiss him and even longer since he wanted someone’s hands on him not out of boredom but out of a true, honest desire.</p>
<p>Outside of the underground, it is storming. They break into a run, shoes slipping on the slick footpath, Remo holding his denim jacket over his head, a few cars splashing them with muddy water. It is almost exhilarating, to feel so alive only because he’s running under the pouring rain, followed by a handsome man he really wants to kiss. </p>
<p>They bump against each other at the door, Remo fumbling with his keys, tracking water all over the lobby. After wiping his eyes, he calls the elevator and notices the sorry state Sirius is in: long hair plastered to his face, wet t-shirt clinging to his body, soaked Converse. Sirius just grins, a wet strand of hair falling over his eyes – without thinking, Remo brushes it back behind his ear, Sirius’ skin wet and soft and cool beneath his fingers, his breath warm on his wrist. They lock eyes in silence, Remo's fingers now brushing Sirius’ jaw, before the elevator door dings open and they step inside.</p>
<p>“Don’t mind the mess,” Remo says, just to fill the silence that stretches between them like a promise. “I cleaned up yesterday but I have textbooks everywhere, and I only have a small dresser, so my clothes are scattered all over the place...”</p>
<p>He manages to unlock the door without making a fool of himself – and then Sirius is pushing him against the wall, pressing hot, wet kisses on his lips, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, and he’s suddenly everywhere, one hand cupping Remo’s neck and the other grabbing his waist, one body seeking another.</p>
<p>Remo goes loose and slack, on the cusp of losing himself, when Sirius pulls away, grey eyes wide and searching.</p>
<p>“Allora ti piaccio, almeno un pochino,” Sirius whispers, a hint of shyness in his voice. <em> So you like me at least a little, after all. </em></p>
<p>There isn’t an adequate reply he can give, not with words anyway, so Remo cups both his hands around Sirius’ jaw to kiss him again, deeper, slower, and when Sirius buries his hands in Remo’ wet curls and sighs and moans in his mouth, Remo remembers with a jolting shock that his body can be an instrument for pleasure, that for so long he denied himself too much, but this time, maybe just once, he can let himself have it.</p>
<p>He can let himself have Sirius, his devastating smile, his infectious enthusiasm, his brilliant mind, his strong, gorgeous body, his unexpected bouts of shyness. Remo takes him by the hand and tugs him towards the bedroom, where the shutters are thankfully closed and maybe, in the feeble light, he won’t even look that ugly. But the thought is there, as soon as he feels wet hands under his soaked t-shirt and impatient fingers tugging at his belt. Remo gets the hint and sits on the edge of his bed, undressing quickly, efficiently – shoes, socks, trousers, t-shirt – and when he looks up at Sirius sliding off his briefs, his prick hardens. It seems like Sirius should have added “going to the gym” to the list of his hobbies. Remo still feels hyper-conscious of the scar marring his thigh, the souvenir of a bicycle accident, but not for long – Sirius gets on his knees, rubs his shaking hands on Remo’s thighs and mouths at his hardness through the cotton fabric of his boxers – and then his mind is all but scattered, confused snapshots of bliss: Sirius glancing up while he sucks his cock, Remo whispering that it’s been a long time for him and sliding out just before coming so hard he almost spaces out for a moment, lying on the unmade bed, Sirius’ tender candour when he confesses, “I’ve wanted to do this for a while,” Remo remembering that Marlowe line, <em>who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? </em></p>
<p>“I knew you’d be sweet,” Sirius says later, when they are both catching their breath, sheets tangled around their entwined ankles. He turns his face on the pillow to look at Remo, his gaze soft. The heavy patter of the rain against the closed shutters erases all the city’s noises, and Remo drinks up the sight of Sirius in the almost dark bedroom, spread on the mattress without a hint of self-consciousness. “I knew it would be good,” he adds, after a moment.</p>
<p>Remo chuckles; post-coital bliss makes some people mushy, but he’s not complaining. “And how did you know?”</p>
<p>Sirius smiles and looks down at him, propped on his elbow, his fingers playing with Remo’s curls. </p>
<p>“Well, sometimes you just know, if you understand what I mean – I knew I wanted to talk to you since that morning you stared at me at<em> Le Terme</em>, all outraged because I stole your table. I knew I wanted you to like me since the day you showed up with that book under your arm… But I wasn’t sure you liked me back until today.”</p>
<p>“I did like you, Sirius, and I – I wanted to talk to you, I did, but...” He sighs.</p>
<p>The whole day was – still is – incredibly lovely, but. There always seems to be a but with Remo, a stumbling block that prevents him from living his life to the fullest – he is the only one with the power to remove said obstacles or, like his therapist says, to cheat, circle around them because they’ll likely always be there, but he must learn how to cope.</p>
<p>“I have social anxiety,” he says, and it weirdly feels good to say it out loud so bluntly. “I’ve always had it, and it never really goes away. Most days it is bearable and doesn’t interfere with work, but starting conversations or meeting people just – it never comes easy, even when I want to. And I <em>wanted </em>to talk to you, I did, but… When there’s even a little change in my everyday schedule, I just – I worry and panic and can’t relax until I stop and gather my thoughts for a week or talk with my therapist – ”</p>
<p>This is way too heavy for pillow talk so Remo shuts up. </p>
<p>Sirius hums and remains pensive for a few seconds, but there’s no judgement in his clear eyes, or pity. “I’m sorry if I made you feel pressured into talking to me or –”</p>
<p>“No, you didn’t,” Remo cuts him off right away. “I’m glad you talked to me – I still don’t know why you did it, I’m not so interesting anyway, but I’m glad... I’m just afraid I’ll be a disappointment, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Look, you shouldn’t feel guilty if you won’t feel like seeing me again, obviously I’ll be very sad but I’ll respect – ”</p>
<p>“No, Sirius,” Remus interrupts him. He shakes his head: he’s already putting his foot in his mouth. “I <em> do </em> want to see you again.”</p>
<p>Sirius smiles radiantly. “I believe I can understand your worries,” he says. “But everything you said doesn’t make me like you less. You <em>are </em>interesting and I want to know you better… I think we can enjoy this <em>thing </em>day by day, without fearing what might or might not happen, taking the happiness we can get. <em> Carpe diem</em>.”</p>
<p>Remo smiles. Only Sirius could quote Horace to make him relax, and only with Remo it can actually work. “I believe it, too, <em> in theory, </em>I just can’t assure you I will be any good at it in practice.” </p>
<p>“It’s ok,” Sirius says, voice sweet and eyes soft.</p>
<p>They lean in at the same time to kiss lazily, getting to know each other's bodies without frenzy.</p>
<p>“I remember you lured me here promising coffee, before throwing me on your bed,” Sirius reminds him, after.</p>
<p>Remus just laughs. “I remember you throwing yourself on my bed, but I will make you coffee.”</p>
<p>He ends up cooking an early dinner, too, grilled tomatoes and zucchini with rosemary focaccia bread, while Sirius uncorks a bottle of white wine and connects his phone to Remo's computer to show him what “indie, minimalist but with an edge” means, soft music filling the tiny kitchen. They open the balcony shutters to ventilate the room, and while the outside air isn’t cold, it’s still pouring hard.</p>
<p>Remo smiles, clinking his wine glass against Sirius’. “Looks like it’s going to rain all night, and you shouldn’t go outside in this weather.”</p>
<p>“I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry,” Sirius says, and he tucks into his food with enthusiasm.</p>
<p>He knows this is a good day and chances are tomorrow won’t be as good, and any other day his anxiety can hit him full force and he might decide to cut things off or Sirius might get bored or they might not be compatible after all. But he also knows he will try his best.</p>
<p>And he does. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Places, poems, books and artworks referenced in this story:<br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baths_of_Diocletian">Baths of Diocletian</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Victor_Emmanuel_II_Monument">Vittoriano</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colosseum"> Colosseum </a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_Forum"> Imperial Forum</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piazza_della_Rotonda"> Piazza della Rotonda with the Pantheon</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castel_Sant%27Angelo">Castel Sant’Angelo</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gay_Street_(Rome)">Gay Street</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bramante_Staircase">Vatican Museums’ staircases</a><br/><a href="http://ancientrome.ru/art/artworken/img.htm?id=709">Antoninus Pius </a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antinous#/media/File:Antinous_Pio-Clementino_Inv256.jpg">Antinous as Dionysus </a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Et_in_Arcadia_ego_(Guercino)">Et in Arcadia Ego by Guercino</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aeneid">Aeneid</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sappho_31">Sappho 31</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_of_Catullus">Catullus’ Carmina</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meditations">Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Satyricon">Satyricon</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ars_Amatoria">Ars Amatoria by Ovid</a><br/><a href="https://la.wikisource.org/wiki/Carmina_(Horatius)/Liber_I/Carmen_XI">Horace, Liber I, Carmen XI</a><br/><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hero_and_Leander_(poem)">Hero and Leander by Christopher Marlowe</a><br/>-<br/>find me on <a href="https://aryastark-valarmorghulis.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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